T minus 2 and counting

As you know, we’re rapidly approaching Turkey day. I’ve hunted wild turkey quite a few times, always in the spring. Autumn was reserved for hunting grouse and ducks, occasionally deer, and, when I lived in Massachusetts, striped bass fishing. Several of us from Minnesota used to travel to the Dakotas for spring turkey hunting, at that time you could hunt with a rifle. I only got one shot in a number of trips, and I missed the bird’s head at about 75 yards. All of this is a lead in to saying  that I’m full of gratitude for the times I’ve spent fishing, hunting, getting ready to fish or hunt, messing with hunting (and other) dogs, fiddling with boats, canoes, belly boats and duck boats.

I grew up at a time when outdoor magazines like Field and Stream, Outdoor Life and Sports Afield published writers like Gene Hill, Corey Ford, and A.J. McLane. That meant I could get three or four times as much  pleasure from any outdoors outing: thinking about going; going; memories of having gone; and, reading about similar trips by others. I’m grateful I grew up where, when and how I did. These days I’m working on following the old advice: “Don’t cry because it’s over, smile because t happened.” I don’t get out as much as I used to but I’m grateful I can still get out at all.

turkey hens in the front yard

Photo by J. Harrington

So, instead of shooting turkeys with a gun, I’ve managed to shoot quite a few with my camera. The taste is a little on the flat side but I get to enjoy the pictures more than for just one or two meals. That’s something for which to be thankful too, right?

Haiku Journey

By Kimberly Blaeser

         i. Spring

the tips of each pine

the spikes of telephone poles

hold gathering crows

may’s errant mustard

spreads wild across paved road

look both ways

roadside treble cleft

feeding gopher, paws to mouth

cheeks puffed with music

yesterday’s spring wind

ruffling the grey tips of fur

rabbit dandelion

         ii. Summer

turkey vulture feeds

mechanical as a red oil rig

head rocks down up down

stiff-legged dog rises

goes grumbling after squirrel

old ears still flap

snowy egret—curves,

lines, sculpted against pond blue;

white clouds against sky

banded headed bird

this ballerina killdeer

dance on point my heart

         iii. Fall

leaf wind cold through coat

wails over hills, through barren trees

empty garbage cans dance

damp September night

lone farmer, lighted tractor

drive memory’s worn path

sky black with migration

flocks settle on barren trees

leaf birds, travel songs

october moon cast

over corn, lighted fields

crinkled sheaves of white

         iv. Winter

ground painted in frost

thirsty morning sun drinks white

leaves rust golds return

winter bare branches

hold tattered cups of summer

empty nests trail twigs

lace edges of ice

manna against darkened sky

words turn with weather

now one to seven

deer or haiku syllables

weave through winter trees

Northern follows jig

body flashes with strike, dive:

broken line floats up.

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